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Ji-seok doesn’t remember when the heosuabi were first put up, only that they have always meant protection. They are faceless, though anyone in the village can tell they face outward, not inward; their clothes are tattered and worn, but never fall from their limbs; sometimes, they sway in the wind.
Ji-seok lives at the base of a hill, directly under the yellow heosuabi. When he was younger, he would often play with Ji-won and Ji-yeon under its watchful gaze, rolling and laughing down the gentle slope. He’s never felt anything but love and affection from the heosuabi—something the other villagers echo.
Nam-il once said he had hurt his ankle as he played behind the green heosuabi; he’d felt a breeze caress his cheek, and as he stood, his ankle was stable enough for him to hobble home. Yoon-hee said she felt comforted as she cried, broken-hearted, at the feet of the blue heosuabi. And Jung-sook’s garden grew deep red flowers after losing her second child. They held magic in them; everyone accepted it. Offerings and gifts were laid at their feet, little dolls and sweets from children; fresh crops and linens from the elders. Ji-seok himself had taught his children what to do, how to honor the yellow heosuabi.
So it came as a shock when one morning, misty and cold, the heosuabi were gone. Never, in all the years the village had stood and grown, had the heosuabi gone missing. Their stalks stood ominous in the ground, bereft of their bodies; scouring the village and its surrounding land yielded nothing. Tensions grew, the elders scrambling to check their records for any mention of the heosuabi disappearing. Perhaps it is an omen, one of them whispers, clutching his purple hanbok uneasily.
Nonsense—they will come back, another elder shoots back, her hair pinned back by a pink hair comb.
As the weeks stretch on, the villagers grow more and more anxious. They continue to leave gifts and offerings at the heosuabi poles, hoping that once they wake in the morning, the heosuabi will have returned. And yet the poles remain empty. Ji-seok sits up at night, speaking softly to his wife, Hyo-jin. They will murmur worriedly to each other, eyes darting from their sleeping children to the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the heosuabi.
The mist settles around their village, thick and difficult to navigate. Trade between this village and the next all but stops, fear weaving between the houses and buildings. Desperate for food and medicine, Nam-il organizes a group to brave the mist, heading out early in the morning for the nearest village. They return a few days later, haggard and wan, but successful.
“There was a raid—Jangnam-myeon got hit,” Nam-il says gruffly, Ji-Seok tending to his wounds, “most of the population fled to Misan-myeon.”
“Will they come here, next?” Ji-seok asks quietly, mindful of his children in the next room.
Nam-il shrugs, hissing slightly as the movement pulls at his stitches. Ji-seok places a wet towel over the torn flesh, patting the man’s shoulder as he sighs.
“I hope not. With the heosuabi gone…who knows what will happen.”
Ji-seok turns to look out the window, the worrying sight of the empty stalk staring down at him. They go to bed that night, Ji-seok sandwiched between his children; he stares up at the ceiling, worry and doubt plaguing his mind. Just after dawn, he slowly detangles himself, going to check on Nam-il in the other room. The man is slumped on his cot near the fireplace, snoring softly. Checking that his stitches have not torn, Ji-seok steps out of the house, making the slow walk up the hill.
He pauses in front of the yellow heosuabi’s pole, kneeling down as birdsong fills the air. He can hear someone walking up behind him, though he does not lift his head; he prays that the heosuabi will return, that the village will be safe, that his children will grow old enough to see their own children and grandchildren. The person stops beside him, kneeling down next to him; they place a gentle hand on Ji-seok’s back, resting it there in comfort. Ji-seok lets out a small breath as the person stands, walking forward; he hears something creak and snap.
Lifting his head, Ji-seok’s breath catches in his throat. The yellow heosuabi is on its pole, staring out across the dipping hillside. Its clothes are worn and tattered, the edges slightly singed. Head whipping around, Ji-seok can just make out the orange heosuabi to the west. The mist has cleared somewhat, receding down to the forests below. Letting out a shaky breath, Ji-seok raises his eyes to heosuabi once more, a smile on his face.
“Thank you.”
The heosuabi sways in the breeze, pole creaking gently.